I’ve been diving headfirst into what I like to call “manly stuff” lately. I fixed and cleaned up what I’m pretty sure was a sewage leak, then tackled both toilets when they simultaneously decided to overflow and flood my house—which, naturally, also flooded my basement. I even used a snake to unclog things, got it stuck, and let it go, only to have it fling… well, let’s just say it flung a lot, and yes, I was the target.
I’ve painted walls, made three trips to Lowe’s, and yes, even checked out a nice set of boobs along the way. The only thing missing in my transformation into the ultimate self-sufficient woman would have been jogging pants and a firm grip on my family jewels, just in case they decided to run off. I was over here blasting Beyoncé, declaring my independence to the universe, scrolling online for a 1973 Ford Bronco to restore all by myself—and honestly, it was exhilarating.
But this morning, all of that came to a screeching halt. I was lounging in my recliner, watching Tombstone, when I noticed a man on my porch, crouched down like he was hiding. My first thought? “Hell no, you aren’t stealing my kids’ homemade Halloween decorations.” Naturally.
I jumped out of the recliner, ran to grab my gun, realized I couldn’t reach it, and there wasn’t time to drag a chair over. Protecting my twins came first, so I grabbed a baseball bat and the dog, flung open the door, and yelled, “Freeze!” Not my most impressive line, I admit, but in the moment, it felt heroic. Then I added, “Put your hands where I can see them and step away from the porch!” Because, of course, criminals always obey crazy women wielding bats.
The man stood up, and… he was holding a pair of underwear. My immediate reaction: “You dirty old nasty bastard! You’re on my porch, smelling underwear!” I swung the bat like a woman possessed, and he kept yelling, “Wait! Wait!” My dog barked, looking tough, but honestly just wanted pets.
Finally, the man explained, “Look! These are yours—they belong in that box. The box got damaged when I laid it on the porch, and the underwear fell out. I was picking them up. I’m your mailman, for God’s sake!”
And y’all… he was right. My mailman. The guy who delivers almost every Amazon package I order, neatly placing them on my porch.
I looked down and realized he was holding my underwear—fancy underwear I had ordered, the kind that’s supposed to magically lift your butt. And here I was, face-to-face with a man I had just assaulted while he held my new butt in his hands.
All I could say was, “Sorry,” before he bolted to his car.
So yes, I am still that irrational woman who escalates everything to maximum chaos, who caused this entire scene because I wanted a new butt delivered by Amazon Prime. Women are wild. I am wild. And clearly, I need to work on my impulse control.
